


Lifeblood, or, That One Time Being Vampires Fixed Everything

by jolly_utter



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Carnivale goes well for once, Dark Comedy, Fix-It, Halloween Terrorfest 2019, M/M, Mild Gore, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, THE DRESS, lots of blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-03 22:30:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21187052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jolly_utter/pseuds/jolly_utter
Summary: “You’ve accused me of melodrama before, so let me be clear that what I’m about to say now is nothing but the cold hard truth.” Francis fixed James with a forthright stare. “I wish to turn you into a vampire.”Written for Halloween Terror Fest Day 9, "I never drink wine."





	Lifeblood, or, That One Time Being Vampires Fixed Everything

**Author's Note:**

> I thought it would be interesting to write a vampire story as the genre was understood in the era of the Franklin Expedition. The vampire was a creature of folklore, rather than literature, until the early 19th century. In 1819, John Polidori wrote _The Vampyre_, loosely basing his aristocratic predator on his contemporary Lord Byron. _Varney the Vampire_, attributed to James Malcolm Rymer, was published as a weekly serial from 1845-47. I can’t find what month it began so I’ve taken the liberty of placing it before the expedition set sail in May of ’45. The vampires in these stories are very much the predecessors of Dracula, but not all the common vampire tropes were set in stone at this point. For instance, they can be brought back to life by moonlight, but are untroubled by the sun. 
> 
> A good summary and discussion of Varney the Vampire can be found here: https://womenwriteaboutcomics.com/2016/10/varney-the-vampire-a-penny-dreadful-pioneer/
> 
> And the full text is on Project Gutenburg (http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/14833) if anyone wants to brave the original prose!

It had been two weeks, just as hellish as Crozier knew they were going to be. He felt foul, bathed in his own sweat and worse, still unable to manage solid food; it was only Jopson’s constant care and attention that kept him remotely sane. The drink might just kill him after all, he thought. That would be ironic, if what finally did him in was not over-indulgence but rather trying to get the wretched stuff out of his system. 

Jopson pressed a blessedly cool cloth to his feverish brow.

“Thank you,” Crozier gritted out, fighting the chattering of his teeth as he shivered. He heard the scrape of a chair and Jopson shifted closer, resting his face on an arm draped over the side of the bunk as he continued his ministrations. In the back of Crozier’s mind, he was aware that this was an uncharacteristic unbending of formality on the part of his impeccably proper steward, but the much larger part of his consciousness was pitifully resigned to accepting whatever comfort was offered him.

“I’m worried about you, sir,” Jopson said softly, regarding him with keen eyes.

“Yes. Well. We knew this wasn’t going to be pleasant.”

“I know,” Jopson said with a frown, “but this is more than unpleasant. You’re getting weaker, sir. You’ve been too long without proper food.”

“I appreciate the encouragement, Thomas.” Crozier had been relieved to find that sarcasm took no more strength than any other form of speech, and allowed himself free reign of it in his sickbed.

“I mean it, sir.” Jopson abandoned the cloth, which had lost the battle of temperature against Crozier’s burning forehead, and instead grasped urgently at Crozier’s arm. “Please— please let me help, sir.”

Crozier was momentarily at a loss for words.

“I can’t imagine anyone being more of a help than you have these past weeks. Anyone would think you had done this before. What more could you possibly do?”

Jopson pulled back and busied himself with his duties again, dipping the cloth in the basin of ice melt and wringing it out. When he turned back to Crozier, his face was set as though he had made a decision.

“I have done this before,” he said, bathing Crozier’s brow again. “My mother—” He paused.

“Tell the story,” Crozier said, the softness of his voice making it more an encouragement than an order, “and spare me nothing.”

A curious smile flickered at the corner of Jopson’s mouth.

“No, sir, I won’t.”

“My mother took my brother to see the circus, at Marylebone. When they returned, she was pale and shaken. Said the seats had collapsed, there was a mad scramble, people were hurt. There was a wound on her throat but we didn’t think much of it. Thing was, she didn’t get better after that day. Seemed to get weaker and weaker.” He paused and took a long breath. “The doctor couldn’t explain it, but I cared for her day and night as she slipped away.

“Then, one night, I discovered what was plaguing her. I woke up to the sound of scratching at the window. There was something like a man there, with a gaunt face and fingers like claws. I lay paralysed with terror, not knowing what to do. It stared me in the face and I stared at it for what felt like hours, until it moved away. I drew one breath of relief, and then froze when I heard the window clatter in the next room over: my mother’s room. I was still trembling with fear, I don’t mind telling you, sir, but I had to do something, so I rushed down the hall armed with nothing but my candlestick and threw open her door. That—creature—was crouched over her, and in the darkness, I could only see that the lower half of its face was dark and glistening. It sprang up with a hiss, and was out the window again before I could catch at it. I went to my mother’s side and lit the candle, to see with horror that she was drenched with blood. I thought she was dead- I could feel no breath, nor pulse.

“I sent for a doctor, but he took some time. When I returned to the room with him, moonlight was streaming in, and she was sleeping peacefully. I would have thought I was imagining it all but that her neck and nightgown were still bloodied. I still thought I was going mad, as the doctor pointed out that our rooms were on the first floor, with no possible way for a man to access them by the window. He cleaned the wound, only to find but a faint, healed, scar underneath. Said it must have been a nosebleed, and that I wasn’t to call him out in the middle of the night for nothing again.

“She seemed like herself again, so it was with only a few misgivings that I went to sea. With you, sir, on the Antarctic voyage in ’39. When I returned, it was to a changed home. My younger brother was dead. Neighbours whispered about a demon prowling the streets. Mother was- well, she smiled and laughed, but she wasn’t the same behind the eyes, if you know what I mean. I don’t like to hear a woman laugh, now.

“And then I started to show the same symptoms she had done. I was horrified, as I felt my strength declining, and at a loss for what to do. It was just a few months before we set sail again in ’45, that I happened to light upon the answer to my questions, in the form of a penny dreadful. One of the neighbours brought me a stack of reading, in an effort to cheer me up. And there it was- Varney the Vampyre. The prose left a great deal to be desired, but the creature it described was just what I had seen at my window, the creature that had been preying on my mother! I saw at once that she had become like it too, that she had drained my poor brother of blood and was doing the same to me. I waited impatiently for the next week’s instalment of the tale to come out, in the hopes of finding a way out of my difficulties.

“I determined that I must end her unnatural life. My own mother, who had raised me, whom I had cared for as she lay sickened and dying. But she was not herself any longer—she who had turned against her own sons! I signed up for the voyage, with the thought that I could get away, immediately after. I suppose I thought I could flee both suspicion, and my own guilty conscience. I got my health up, once I knew what I was facing, by going away to stay with a friend. The night before we were due to leave, I went to say goodbye, and to carry out my dreadful errand.

“Well, there is no need to dwell on the details. I lay in my bed with the door unlocked to entice her in, needing to confirm my theory once and for all, only I was more tired than I realised and dozed off. I awoke to her drinking from my neck, an appalling sensation. I was weak once more, and dizzy, but I recalled what I had to do. There are certain ways to kill a vampire so that it may not rise again- puncturing the heart, and severing the head. There was a violent struggle and in the midst of it, I must have swallowed some of her blood. Such is the means by which a person is turned vampire. I did not realise at the time, and I was preoccupied by fear and sorrow. I buried her body in the back garden, and it was some relief to see that her expression was peaceful in death, and she seemed to be released from her unwanted monstrous affliction.

“I made my way to the ship, and it was not until we had set sail that the craving came upon me, and I realised that in an effort to save her, I had unknowingly doomed myself to the same fate. And yet I found myself still rational, still able to recognise those I cared for and determine right and wrong. I believe the circumstances of the transformation have something to do with it—whether one is prepared for the change, or knowledgeable about it as I was, may help with the retention of a sense of self. In any case, I’ve rambled long enough, and that’s all the story.”

Jopson drew a deep breath, relieved to have finally spoken the words aloud.

Crozier wondered if this might be a fever dream. What could the demure young man beside him have in common with the monster he described? The only associations he could draw on were a vague idea of European folklore, crowds of fearful peasants, something to do with Lord Byron. His mind whirled with questions, but settled on the more practical first.

“How—how have you managed, this whole voyage?”

Jopson suddenly could not meet his gaze, and when he replied, his voice was quiet.

“I wouldn’t have come, had I known. I thought I had escaped it, but when the symptoms came on, I couldn’t avoid the truth. I can still eat and drink as a man, but it gives me no pleasure or true sustenance. I’ve been trying to eat as little as possible without raising suspicion, in order not to use up rations I don’t need.”

Crozier nodded slowly. That much, at least, made sense.

“As for what I do need—” Jopson paused, then ploughed ahead. “Well, sir, the effects of vampirism are frequently mistaken for consumption.”

Jopson watched Crozier’s face as horrified understanding settled upon him, then, in spite of his weakness, he pushed himself up on one elbow to face Jopson with his sudden anger.

“You- you ate my men? Those good men died purely to satisfy your filthy appetites? By God, Jopson, if this is true I’ll—”

Crozier faltered as his comprehensive knowledge of the Articles of War failed to immediately supply a suitable punishment for vampirism.

“Please hear me out, sir,” Jopson pleaded, taking advantage of the pause. “I’m not proud of what I did, but I only—I only preyed on those who were already sick. Some were sent home still alive. Torrington’s lungs were coated with coal dust when he came on board, there was no hope for him. I have learned to control myself better, since then, not to drain them to the point of death.” He tried not to shrink from Crozier’s implacable, furious, gaze. “I think you know something about survival, sir. What a man will do—”

“Not to the point of subsisting on another so that you may live! I know such things happen in desperation but I have never condoned it!” Crozier looked ready to leap to his feet to confront Jopson for a moment, but the outburst had sapped his energy, and he fell back on the pillow, glaring.

“When I get well I will deal with you,” he said. “For now, I don’t want to hear another word from you.”

He turned away to face the wall of the bunk, and Jopson dropped his head in sudden hopelessness. Of course he couldn’t have expected understanding from his captain, but the loss of all his trust and respect in one fell swoop hurt like a physical blow. What had compelled him to tell the truth? Jopson sighed, the despair he had tried to keep at bay now overwhelming him. Crozier was dying. The same instinct, the one that had led Jopson to seek out the weak on the ship in order to assuage his conscience as well as his hunger, told him that the captain’s days were numbered.

Another week passed. Jopson still tended Crozier faithfully, despite the Captain’s icy silence towards him. Doctor MacDonald’s face was grave after his latest examination. 

“I fear the shock of sudden withdrawal has been too much for his body,” he quietly told the assembled group of those who knew the situation. “He cannot keep food down, and is weakening as a result. If there is not a change soon he will simply waste away. Medically, we are doing all we can. It must come from within.”

Jopson returned to Crozier’s side, regarding the man’s unhealthy pallor, his strong form starting to shrink in on itself. He was uncomfortably reminded of his mother’s decline, and had to tell himself firmly that the Captain was not a victim of anything unnatural, merely his own body’s war with itself. For the moment, anyway.

Crozier’s eyes flickered open.

“Jopson?” He said, with a kindness that had been missing since Jopson’s confession. His gaze was unfocused, and Jopson knew his mind was losing its hold on reality.

“Yes, it’s me, sir.” Jopson reached for Crozier’s hand, speaking quietly but firmly. “Doctor MacDonald is very concerned. Says something must change if you are to live. Do you want to live, sir? I don’t think we can do without you.”

Crozier’s brow furrowed as he tried to form a response.

“Yes I fucking want to live,” he finally managed. “I don’t want to have put myself through this misery for nothing.”

Jopson smiled.

“That’s the spirit.” He gave Crozier’s hand a squeeze, trying to bring him fully into the present. “Do you remember what I told you, sir? A week ago? The reason you haven’t been speaking to me.”

If the sudden ire in Crozier’s expression was any indication, the memory had indeed resurfaced.

“I think it’s the only way, sir. The only way to save you. Please. The expedition won’t survive- I don’t believe any of us will- if you’re not here to lead us.”

“What are you asking me to do?” Crozier’s voice was still weak, but there was firmness underlying it now.

“Let me turn you, sir. Make you like me. Your health will be restored, you’ll be stronger than ever. You’ll be able to get us out of here.”

“And at what cost?” 

“Isn’t there always a cost for survival? I’ll help you manage it, we’ll find a way, sir. Please.” Jopson knew he was just begging now, making promises he had not fully examined, but he could not bear to see his Captain’s life slipping away when it was in his power to restore it. But nor could he do anything without Crozier’s permission. He knew that their situation was growing ever more desperate and that in order to get through what lay ahead, they must be unified. Together, they might just manage it.

Finally, Crozier nodded. 

“God forgive me,” he murmured. “Do what you need to.”

Beyond the cabin walls, Jopson could hear the hubbub of the men readying themselves for the Carnivale with shouts and bursts of laughter. An atmosphere of excitement thrummed through the ship, with the exception of the cramped, dimly lit cabin where their Captain lay dying. The men did not know that, of course, and could not be faulted for revelling in the holiday atmosphere. Jopson had told MacDonald and Little to go along and try to enjoy themselves.

“I think the Captain is showing some improvement,” he told them, “and the quiet may do him good. Don’t you worry, sirs, I’ll look after him.”

The noise reached a crescendo as the men assembled below the hatchways, ready to depart, and then, with a great thumping of feet on the companionways and across the deck, they were gone. Their voices faded quickly, swallowed up by the Arctic night, and in their sudden solitude, Jopson was more aware than ever of the icy embrace holding the _Terror_ fast. The dire reality of their situation cemented his certainty that this was the right course of action, and he made up his mind how best to go about it.

“Are you ready, sir?” He asked, and the captain nodded, his face resolute although he could barely lift his head.

Jopson lifted Crozier’s wrist to his mouth as though to bite off a stray thread, such a familiar gesture that Crozier relaxed, looking up at the planking above. Jopson pushed the captain’s sleeve up above his elbow, and then there was a sharp pain that made Crozier cry out and jerk violently, even in his weakened state.

“Shh, I’ve got you, sir,” Jopson soothed.

When Crozier looked, his first thought was that the red of Jopson’s jumper had somehow spilled from his sleeve onto the crook of Crozier’s arm. No, that was blood, and as he watched, Jopson bent his mouth to it. Sweet Thomas Jopson, lapping up his blood like a hungry animal. He glanced up with an apologetic look in his pale eyes, but kept drinking. Crozier looked away and tried to relax. Time passed, and his extremities started to tingle with pins and needles. He could feel his heart labouring in his chest, emptily trying to keep pumping. His vision darkened around the edges and while a dogged survival instinct tried to tell him that this was terribly wrong, he felt only relief. To finally be able to rest, emptied of pain and responsibility alike- his eyes drifted closed and a smile lighted on his cracked lips. 

Crozier was dimly aware of a hand shaking his shoulder, and Jopson’s urgent voice. He tried to turn his head away, unwilling to be disturbed from his rest.

“Sir? Please sir, you need to drink.”

Out of three week’s habit of obeying Jopson’s instructions, as much as anything else, Crozier opened his lips. Something warm was pressed against them, not the rim of a glass, but he felt wetness touch his mouth and abruptly realised how thirsty he was. Chasing the hot liquid with lips and tongue, he sucked desperately until he had strength enough to open his eyes and understood just what was happening. 

Jopson was leaning braced awkwardly over the bunk, his sleeve rolled up so he could press his arm to his captain’s mouth. Crozier pulled back enough to see blood smeared about and welling from a punctured vein and unconsciously licked his lips. Jopson’s other hand smoothed his hair.

“Take as much as you need, you’ll be weak.”

Thus encouraged, Crozier followed his hungry instinct and drank again, clasping Jopson’s arm close. At some point, he fell into a doze. 

When he opened his eyes again, he felt disoriented but better rested than he had in weeks- months, even. He might have slept for days. He struggled up onto his elbows to find himself alone. Crozier swung his legs down and tested his strength- still weak, but he was clear-headed and wanted to move. Shrugging a blanket around his shoulders, he wandered into the great cabin in search of Jopson. 

The steward stepped in a moment later, balancing a tray with a bowl of hot water and a cloth on it, and smiled when he saw Crozier.

“Good to see you up, sir! Feeling better?”

“Strangely I am, yes.” Crozier passed a hand over his face and frowned. “What day is it? Where is everyone? Am I dead?”

Jopson chuckled and set the tray down, gesturing him to sit.

“Let me get you cleaned up, sir. You’ve only been asleep about an hour, it’s still the night of Commander Fitzjames’s Carnivale. That’s where the crew are.”

“James’s Carnivale? I think I should like to see that.”

“Are you sure, sir? You’ve only just changed and you’ll still be weak. And in answer to your other question, I think the correct term may be un-dead. You’re still walking and breathing, as you can see, but not strictly one of the living, no.”

Crozier digested this information for a moment.

“Well, then. I don’t see any reason not to undertake a half-mile walk across the ice.”

The massive tent was visible from some distance off, glowing like a beacon through the Arctic night. As they drew closer, Crozier and Jopson heard music and voices, could see the silhouettes of bodies through the canvas. They all seemed to be moving, congregating towards the largest tent in the centre. 

“Better hurry up, sir,” Jopson said, “We’ll miss all the fun. I heard rumours of a play!”

They were perhaps twenty yards off when Crozier held up his hand, halting his steward.

“Who’s that?”

There was a dark figure visible through the entrance, and it appeared to be pouring something from a large keg onto the clothing hanging there. Crozier quickened his steps, coming through the opening to run face-to-face up against Doctor Stanley, who was about to strike a match. The look on his face sent a chill through Jopson’s heart- he recognised a man who was dead behind the eyes.

“What are you doing, Doctor?” Crozier demanded. 

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Stanley said coldly. “Putting us all out of our misery sooner rather than later. There’s no hope left now.”

Jopson stepped over to the rack of outerwear and sniffed it.

“It’s alcohol, sir. He means to torch the place.”

In Crozier’s moment of distraction, Stanley lit the match. At the sound of the spark catching, Crozier hurled himself bodily at the doctor and they rolled, scuffling, out into the snow. Jopson hurried after, in time to hear an inhuman snarl and see Doctor Stanley’s long legs, dark against the ground, kicking helplessly. Crozier was crouched over him, one hand gripping Stanley’s hair to hold his head down. There was a hideous wet crunching sound, a choked cry, a few more feeble kicks, and then Stanley lay still. Jopson stood over them and watched Crozier drink until he finally looked up. His mouth and chin were covered in blood, his hair sticking up, and his eyes were wild and disbelieving as he looked between Jopson and the wreck of Doctor Stanley’s throat in front of him.

“You’ll feel better now you’ve eaten, sir,” Jopson said encouragingly. “And I can’t say the man didn’t deserve it.”

“He was threatening the men,” Crozier said faintly.

“Would have burned them all alive if you hadn’t acted.” Jopson came round and offered Crozier a hand, pulling him to his feet. “Can you help me get him across that pressure ridge? With any luck a white bear will carry the body off.”

They did so, scrambling and slipping, until they could lay his body down out of sight of the tent. It was unlikely that it would be noticed there, when no one ventured further than necessary in the cold and dark. His disappearance could be put down to wandering off in the night and getting lost, or perhaps the creature would be blamed, though that would spread more panic than necessary. It had not been seen since the night when it and Lady Silence had both vanished, and it was Crozier’s sincere hope that she had somehow been able to get it under control.

“You wait just outside here, sir,” Jopson said firmly as they returned. “I’ll find some water to clean you up. Don’t worry, you shouldn’t feel the cold so much, now.”

Indeed, the Arctic air felt like nothing more than a brisk winter’s day at home to Crozier. He could feel the fresh blood buzzing in his veins, as though he were finally coming awake after a long sleep. He piled fresh snow over the bloody patch where Stanley had fallen. Jopson returned with a wet cloth, and together they cleaned all traces of blood from his face and removed his stained slops. The steward looked him over with a critical eye.

“You uniform seems to have escaped damage,” he said with relief, brushing at a lapel.

Crozier took refuge in his usual brusqueness to avoid thinking too much about all that had just passed.

“Oh, stop fussing. Am I decent to go in now?”

Proceeding into the labyrinth of decorated tents, Crozier and Jopson gazed in wonder at the extravagant excess laid out within. They followed the uproar of laughter and voices to see what had drawn the crew to the central, largest tent, emerging at the back of the crowd facing a makeshift stage. From the applause and bows taking place, it appeared that a small theatrical had just concluded.

“And now,” came booming voice of _Erebus’s_ purser, who was acting as Master of Ceremonies, “Clear the dance floor, if you please, as we welcome the King and Queen of the Carnivale!”

The assembled men moved back toward the sides of the tent, murmuring in anticipation, and Crozier and Jopson pressed forward. They came upon Blanky, propped on a crutch and drinking out of his wooden leg, and he drew Crozier into an enthusiastic embrace.

“Glad to see you back with us, Francis!” He grinned. “You wouldn’t want to miss this!”

A small group of men with instruments had taken over the stage, and a ragged flourish heralded the entrance of the Carnivale royalty. Lieutenant Le Vesconte was dashing in a heraldic tunic and crown, but Crozier could not tear his eyes off Commander Fitzjames, resplendent on his arm. The second in command was wearing a long velvet gown, tight across his broad chest and exposing his shoulders, belted about his hips and hanging in thick pleats to the floor. His dark hair was pinned up beneath a slender coronet, his cheeks reddened and his mouth in a broad smile as the men cheered wildly. The two royals made a circuit of the room, nodding graciously while the men halloed and made clumsy drunken bows, amid much hilarity. In the crowd, Fitzjames caught Crozier’s eye, and looked stricken for a moment. Crozier gave him a small nod, trying to hide his broad smile. He thought Fitzjames looked perhaps a trifle more flushed, but he couldn’t be certain as the pair moved on, returning to the centre of the tent.

Then the music struck up, they bowed deeply to one another, and Le Vesconte took Fitzjames up in his arms to execute a very passable waltz about the dance floor of packed snow. Le Vesconte’s balance was clearly impaired by his missing toes, and Fitzjames was trying not to trip over his long skirts, but both were grinning and holding their crowned heads high. Then, deciding enough was enough, Le Vesconte gave Fitzjames a final spin, and they bowed to each other and the crowd before collapsing against each other, laughing. The band struck up a livelier tune, and the men filled the dance floor. Some showed off jigs and hornpipes, others attempted to polka each other about, and the air was full of merriment.

“Doesn’t hold a candle to your New Year’s dance with Sir James Ross,” Jopson murmured loyally to Crozier, who laughed.

“It was an admirable effort, all the same. It’s good to see the men so happy.”

Fitzjames quickly spotted Crozier and Jopson standing on the edge of the crowd, remarkable only for their lack of costume, Crozier hoped. He still felt the stench of blood hang about him, but Jopson had assured him that his senses would be more acute now. Perhaps that was the reason for his current state of distraction at Fitzjames’ appearance. Without the haze of alcohol and bitterness distorting his perception, he could certainly admit that the man was handsome enough, even done up like a Drury Lane matinée’s idea of a medieval princess.

“Francis, you made it!” Fitzjames greeted him with genuine cheer, steering them towards a quiet corner. Jopson discreetly slipped away, and Crozier was left trying not to stare at the pale column of Fitzjames’ exposed throat. Instead, he glanced around at the fantastical décor and festive atmosphere of the large tent.

“You’ve accomplished a miracle here.”

Fitzjames shrugged lightly.

“The men worked hard to make this happen. I thought they needed something to cheer them before we ask them to get ready.”

“Ready?”

“To walk out. You were right, Francis, it’s the only way.”

They were standing close to one another in order to speak quietly amid the hubbub, so Crozier almost had to tilt his head back to look James in the face.

“Thank you, James. You’ve done everything I could have hoped for in my absence, and more.”

Fitzjames glowed under the praise- strange, for a man who seemed to have such a surfeit of self-confidence.

“You’re looking very well, I must say,” he replied. “Last I heard you were at death’s door.”

“You’re looking well yourself.” Crozier lifted his hand for what was intended to be a friendly clap on the shoulder, and found himself instead tracing the line of Fitzjames’s exposed collarbone. To his even greater surprise, Fitzjames turned his head like a preening cat, opening himself to the touch as a shaky breath escaped his parted lips.

A quick glance around showed Crozier that no one was paying them the slightest attention. The movement of his hand was blocked from the room by Fitzjames’s body as he answered the unspoken invitation, running fingertips up the side of his neck and then resting a thumb in the hollow where his pulse throbbed. Crozier felt a hunger growing, but not the urge to tear and devour that had overcome him not long before. Something in James’s blood called out to him, but he was content to leave it where it belonged for the time being, if he could possess him in another way.

Fitzjames turned back to look at him, and whatever he saw in Crozier’s face was confirmation enough, for he grasped the hand still caressing his neck and draw Francis away into a discreet nook, canvas sheltering them on two sides and the solid wall of that preposterous false hedge on the other. As soon as they were alone, Crozier gave in to the temptation to run his hands over the soft velvet covering Fitzjames’s torso, enjoying the contrast of the muscled body beneath. There was heavy trim encircling his hips and Crozier traced it, enthralled.

Fitzjames was breathing heavily, his eyes dark. There was little distance between them and Francis could see James biting at the inside of his lip. He was just contemplating capturing those lips himself when James spun Francis around, back to the hedge, and dropped to his knees. Francis’s breath left him in a rush, and he tried not to whimper at the shock of cold air as James opened his trousers, and then the immensely more pleasurable heat of his mouth on Francis’s cock.

James knew what he was doing, that was certain. His mouth was confident and he quickly sucked Francis deep, setting up a rhythm that had the captain tipping his head back and gasping, settling his legs wider and resting a still-gloved hand on the back of James’s head. Not pushing, just appreciative. Encouraging. James did not appear to need much encouragement. His eyes were closed and Francis could feel the reverberations as he groaned in satisfaction. One hand was wrapped around Francis’s hip, thumb pressing hard against bone, the other pumping at the base of his cock, and Francis found himself gasping and coming hard within minutes.

Francis drew James to his feet, feeling a little shaky. He knew that at this point he could tell himself and his fellow officer the easy lie that he had been imagining Fitzjames to be a lady, and that the illusion was over along with the act, not to be spoken of again. The thought was dismissed almost as soon as it occurred, as he saw the mingled want and fear in James’s expression, more open than he had ever seen it before. James’s absurd crown was askew and he lifted it away, dropping it to the snow at their feet. Francis ran a hand down James’s body, felt the hard flesh of his arousal under soft velvet and wrapped his hand over it, watching James enjoy the slide of fabric and pressure. Without further contemplation, he reached up to draw James’s mouth to his, and James pressed him back against the hedge wall, body to body and tongue to tongue. This was more than most men cared to do, and Francis could taste himself in James’s mouth, but these concerns were nothing compared to how badly he wanted James in that moment.

Francis swapped their positions again, stripping off gloves as he did so. With the hand not holding James close, he pulled at the heavy skirts to gather them up, revealing the long legs underneath. Fine monogrammed boots, wool stockings up to the knee— and nothing else.

“You fucking lunatic, you’ll freeze to death.”

“Worth it for the look on your face.”

James was capable of intolerable smugness even with his skirts pulled up to his waist, so there was nothing for Francis to do but kiss him again, take him in hand, and wank him off until he was shaking and gasping in his arms. 

Slowly, they righted themselves, retrieved James’s fallen crown, and staggered back to the increasingly wild festivities. Francis strongly suspected that they were not the only men to enjoy one another that night, and by the small hours of the morning, all reserve was gone. The crew were huddled in small groups, leaning against one another and talking, passing a bottle about, or sleeping piled together like a litter of puppies. No one noticed the two expedition leaders settle down beside one another, heads tilted onto shoulders as they slept.

Someone, stumbling out of the tent for a piss, noticed the lightening sky and ran back into the tent with an exultant shout. Francis startled awake, braced for emergency before he realised that the hubbub was a joyful one. There was a great deal of grumbling, but eventually all the men poured outside to witness the miracle of sunlight after many long weeks of its absence. The men cheered, and there was more singing. James was rumpled and shivering and still a little drunk, if the softness of his expression when he smiled at Francis was anything to go by. Eventually everyone staggered back to the ships or the warmth of the tent to continue sleeping off their revels as darkness descended once more.

Back on _Terror_, later in the morning, Jopson fussed over Crozier even while helping him into spare slops to go back on the ice.

“You ought to rest more,” he chided, “seeing as you were on your deathbed yesterday.”

“I’d better go help supervise the clean-up,” Francis said with a wry smile. “After all, I’m probably the only man here without a hangover, for once!”

Once organised, the men in both crews unlucky enough to be up and moving worked cheerfully. They dismantled the decorations and the great tent, packing away leftover stores for future use, and ribbing at their more afflicted comrades. Fitzjames joined Crozier on the ice an hour or so later, looking pale and shadowed about the eyes, but cheerful in spite of that. 

“Congratulations on a very successful Carnivale, James!” Francis greeted him.

“Thank you!” James came to stand at his side, mouth twisting briefly before he committed himself to speech. “I say, Francis, ought I to apologise for what happened last night?”

Francis glanced at him, smiling.

“Are you sorry?”

James shook his head, not quite meeting his gaze.

“Well then. Firstly, I believe it’s I who owe you an apology, for my shocking behaviour towards you prior to my… illness. And second of all, in case it escaped your notice, I was entirely enthusiastic and in command of myself for the duration.”

Well, besides the fact that he had torn a man’s throat out half an hour before, but he hadn’t been drunk, at least.

“As long as you don’t— mind?” Fitzjames’s voice could only be described as hopeful. Crozier let out a bark of a laugh, before dropping his voice and leaning closer.

“Mind? I can’t remember the last time someone sucked me off so expertly.”

Fitzjames laughed too, flushing.

“In that case, might I invite you to dinner on _Erebus_ tonight?”

“I would be very glad to join you.”

In the months of preparation for the long walk, Crozier had the opportunity to assess what sort of an undead man he was. 

“If I’d have known you were like this sober, Francis,” James had panted, bent over his berth with his face pressed against the wool blanket, “I would have poured all the whiskey overboard before we left Greenhithe.”

Francis laughed breathlessly.

“A great many more things have changed, you know that.”

Then he shifted the angle of his hips and very effectively banished further thought from James’s mind. 

However, Francis did wonder what exactly had wrought such a transformation in him. It was hard to tell how much was due to being sober for the first time in years, and how much to the new phenomena of blood-drinking. He certainly felt more clear-headed, and Jopson assured him that his temperament was much improved. Perhaps his newfound patience was the reason that besides rodgering James Fitzjames silly at every opportunity, he even more shockingly found himself actually enjoying the man’s company. Crozier had once attempted to probe Jopson for information on the subject, with limited success.

“Tell me, Jopson,” he said as casually as possible, as Jopson brought him his morning tea- tasteless now, but a comforting habit- “this vampire thing. Do you know of any other effects? I mean to say, in addition to the thirst for blood, does one develop any other… unnatural appetites?”

Jopson raised a polite eyebrow, and Crozier restrained the urge to curse at him. He knew that he came back from his regular visits to _Erebus_ stinking of sex, and he likewise knew that Jopson’s senses were as unnaturally acute as his own. The man must know to what he was referring.

“Not in my experience, no, sir.” Jopson busied himself with the tea things. “Perhaps the departure from ordinary rules of life might make it easier to act upon certain innate urges, but that would probably depend on the individual.”

“Hmph.”

Damn the man, and his ability to as good as accuse his captain of being a deviant without actually saying anything outright.

Suddenly Jopson’s hands stilled on the china, and he slipped into the seat opposite Crozier. Their shared condition had given him freedom to transgress the dictates of etiquette on occasion, but he did not do so lightly.

“You haven’t turned him, have you, sir?” He asked, suddenly serious.

“What? No!” It was too late for Crozier to pretend ignorance, and he saw little point in attempting it.

“Ah. My apologies for prying. It’s just- I feel rather responsible for this whole situation, and I’m barely managing to feed the two of us without suspicion as it is.”

Crozier turned the conversation over in his mind afterwards. The idea of turning anyone else vampire had not previously occurred to him, but he wondered whether it might be advisable after all. He thought of the blood beading on James’s brow- hell, he could smell the disease slowly rotting him. It was only a faint aroma now, like overripe fruit, but he knew there was only one way it would progress without intervention. Scurvy aside, being a vampire seemed to give one unnatural strength and stamina, and resistance to cold: surely valuable qualities for both leaders of the expedition to possess. He briefly toyed with the idea of turning the whole crew on these grounds, but dismissed the idea as both impractical, and probably immoral.

Crozier knew that Jopson had an eye for who were the troublemakers in the crew, and targeted them in his acquisition of meals for himself and his captain. He kept himself informed about who he was consuming—that seemed only just, even when Jopson brought him the blood in a bottle, still hot, and he downed it as eagerly as he had ever done whiskey. 

In the week before they were due to walk out, they held a funeral for Mr. Hickey, who had sadly wasted away from the consumption. As soon as the few hours of darkness had fallen, Jopson and Crozier went out in the moonlight to dig up the body, cut its head off, and drive a wooden stake through its heart. Hickey’s eyes flew open as they wrested the lid off the coffin, and his blue lips twisted into their customary smirk. Before he could speak, Crozier was hacking at him with a boat axe. He thrashed and screamed and foamed up what little blood remained in his body, and the whole ordeal lasted several long minutes. Jopson smiled grimly when the job was done.

“Don’t want this one coming back, sir.”

Crozier nodded his agreement, and they set to work burying Hickey for good.

On the way back to the ship, Crozier put forth his arguments for turning Fitzjames, and Jopson conceded the point. 

“I think only him, for now. We want to keep this contained. And you might have a job of convincing him.”

“That had occurred to me, especially seeing as he’s not at death’s door—yet.” Their boots crunched on the ice, and Crozier looked across at the bulk of _Erebus_, silhouetted against the starry sky. “I might walk over now and give it a try.”

“Best of luck, sir.” They shook hands briefly, and Crozier set off for the other ship.

He managed to slip aboard, unnoticed by the sentries. He had found that if he focused on being unobtrusive, their eyes would slide right over him- rather like being an undesirable but necessary guest at an admiralty function. It was an ability he had always admired in Jopson; the knowledge that it was a property of their undead state only detracted slightly from his assessment of the man’s abilities as a steward. 

He trod the familiar path to Fitzjames’ cabin, doffed his outer layers, and slid open the door. Moonlight streamed in through the stern windows of the great cabin, and by its light, James looked lovely as a maiden. More so, even, than he had at Carnivale in that glorious gown. His dark hair was spread across the pillow and his nightshirt collar hung open, exposing the long line of his neck. Francis stood and stared greedily before recalling himself with a shudder. What was he doing, creeping upon his fellow officer in the dead of night like something from a gothic romance? His condition must have affected him more than he had realised. They ought to have a sensible conversation, in daylight, so James could decide the matter for himself with a clear head. Francis swallowed and looked at James’s neck again. He could practically see the blood pulsing within, and the thought of placing his lips there, drinking him in, and then letting James do the same to him, was deeply enticing. No, no, it would not do. Francis turned to leave, forgetting to be cautious, and walked directly into the doorframe.

Crozier cursed very quietly and comprehensively under his breath as he heard Fitzjames stir.

“Francis?” James asked, thick with sleep. “What’s the matter? Has something happened?”

Nothing for it. Francis went to James’s side, endeavouring to sound reassuring.

“No, nothing’s the matter. I just wanted to—to speak with you.”

“In the dead of night?” James’s incredulity was palpable. “Come, man, I’m not that irresistible. I need my beauty sleep.”

Francis rolled his eyes.

“It’s not like that. Well. Not entirely. The fact is, I need to talk to you about your health.”

“My health?”

James pushed himself up on one elbow, and Francis still hovered awkwardly at the bedside. A little at a loss, he put his hands behind him and cleared his throat.

“H’m. Yes. I’m worried you’re not well enough for the walk ahead of us. No, let me finish,” he said, as James opened his mouth to protest. “I would like you to be as strong and healthy as possible, and I know you’re starting to show signs of scurvy. I’ve seen it get worse even in the weeks since Carnivale. And I want to change that, if you’ll let me.”

“Change it? How?”

“Do you trust me, James?”

“As much as any man alive.”

Francis let out a humourless laugh.

“You’ve accused me of melodrama before, so let me be clear that what I’m about to say now is nothing but the cold hard truth.” Francis fixed James with a forthright stare. “I wish to turn you into a vampire.”

James’ face went through a range of expressions before settling on utter bewilderment.

“I beg your pardon?”

Francis’s patience was beginning to fray.

“For god’s sake, you know what a vampire is. Undead, drinks blood, can’t be killed by ordinary means. Jopson realised he was one early in the voyage, long story, he turned me when I was about to die from alcohol withdrawal, now I’d like to save you by doing the same.”

The familiar flash of temper seemed to give more credence to Francis’s story than his seriousness had, and James frowned in genuine consideration.

“I must confess that the prospect of being restored to health is a tempting one. You’ve certainly changed for the better, I have to say. But—how do you feed? Are you preying on the men?”

Francis decided to ignore the question in favour of future logistics.

“As soon as we’re walking we’ll have the chance to hunt, and I’m confident that with heightened strength and senses, we’ll be able to find game. We can drink the blood, and give the meat to the men.” Francis finally moved closer, resting a hand on James’s arm. “I need you strong if we are to get out of here. Perhaps it’s selfish of me but I want you by my side in this.”

James’ expression softened and he covered Francis’s hand with his own.

“Damn it, Francis, I think I would follow you to the ends of the earth at this point. Yes, I will share in this with you. I feel I must do everything in my power to get us all out of here.”

“Good man.” Francis smiled warmly down at him, and James knew that there was a great deal more he would do, if only Francis would keep looking at him like that. “Shove over, then.”

James obligingly scooted back against the wall, leaving Francis just enough room to clamber into the bunk beside him.

This, at least, was familiar, and James relaxed into Francis’s embrace, kissing him eagerly and kicking aside the blankets to tangle their legs together. He was just beginning to move his hips with some intent when Francis pulled back to look him in the face.

“Are you certain, James?”

James nodded, breathless, and he felt Francis’s hand at his throat, turning his head away. Francis licked up the exposed side of his neck.

“You’re going to taste so good,” he murmured roughly, and James bit back a moan.

“Please,” James said, and Francis sunk his teeth in. 

The next morning, Crozier and Jopson walked over together to check on Fitzjames’s condition. Francis in particular was relieved to see him up and about, sitting in the great cabin with a cup of coffee and reviewing their charts. He had felt a little guilty sneaking back to _Terror_ after James was asleep, but they were taking enough risks as it was.

“How are you feeling?” He asked his second in command.

“Surprisingly well, considering how greatly I alarmed poor old Bridgens with the quantity of blood on my pillow this morning. I’m certainly feeling none the worse for it. I’ll miss the taste of coffee, though,” James concluded, gazing into his cup with some regret.

“I’m glad to hear it. I should hope you’re feeling well, given you nearly sucked me dry!”

James smirked, and Jopson interested himself in the view out of stern windows, which had been unchanged for the better part of a year now. His attention was recalled by the sound of his name.

“I’ve brought Jopson along to help answer any questions you might have. He certainly knows more about this thing than I do.”

Fitzjames pondered a moment. Then he looked at his coffee cup in sudden realisation, and raised his eyes to the steward with a look of horror.

“Does this mean—will I—will I never enjoy a pudding again?”

On the long walk, things went, for once, as well as they had hoped. Francis had been ruthless about only allowing the essentials onto the boats—watching the men regretfully set aside china and books, he worried that he might be losing touch with his humanity a little. But it meant that the loads were as light as possible, a necessary precaution as the trek was still a difficult one. The three vampires were able to scout far afield to find not only game, but the best routes across King William Land. They encountered a party of locals and were able to trade for some food, as well as make their situation known, on the off chance that word would reach anyone who might be looking for them. Crozier attempted to ask after Lady Silence and the Tuunbaq, but they shook their heads; whether because they knew nothing, or would not speak of it, he couldn’t say.

As soon as he could, Captain Crozier made Jopson a junior Lieutenant; not only was the rank entirely deserved, but it was imperative to give him, as one of the most essential members of the expedition, some measure of authority. Crozier, Jopson, and Fitzjames usually went out to hunt in pairs, with one of the three remaining to guard the camp, and the long treks across the shifting shale gave them the opportunity to get to know one another better than ever before. 

When the empty sky and crunch of stones became too oppressive, words flowed out to fill the void. Sometimes it was inconsequential- childhood stories and those small incidents that loom large in any long voyage and become the fodder for humour and tales for months afterward. And then, unexpectedly, one or another of them would bare a piece of their soul never seen by another man. Fitzjames spoke of the circumstances of his birth and the shame he always carried with him. Crozier dredged up and released into the cold air bittersweet recollections of Sophia. Jopson dropped his polished exterior to tell of his hardscrabble growing up, having to find most every meal with his own hands. 

“Never knew the practice would come in so useful in the navy,” he said wryly.

“More like the Survival Service than the Discovery Service,” Fitzjames, who was walking with him that day, responded. He thought a moment, then went on, “I suppose the three of us will make it through in any case—you said we can’t be killed by ordinary means? But I am determined to drag the others along too. Every one of them deserves as much chance to survive.”

Jopson nodded agreement. 

“Have you thought about what you’re going to do, afterwards?” He asked. “This isn’t a lifestyle particularly conducive to shipboard life, I’ve found. And god knows we have the time now to do anything we please.”

Fitzjames’ chapped lips cracked into a smile.

“Do you know, I haven’t thought of anything beyond the moment of rescue for a very long time. It’s hard to imagine keeping any company besides this crew now.”

“I know what you mean, sir. I don’t like the idea of us all scattering to the four winds, never to serve together again.”

“Perhaps we could all set up in a big house, somewhere, those who don’t have other lives to return to. Crozier’s Home for Arctic Strays.”

Jopson laughed heartily.

“I like the sound of that!”

The journey was still hard work, for everyone. While there was enough fresh meat to keep the worst ravages of scurvy at bay, the men were feeling the ill effects of lead poisoning from the tinned food they still relied on, on top of cold and constant exertion. The three remaining doctors were kept busy tending to frostbite, sores, and exhaustion. Even for those with superhuman powers, there was scarcely enough blood in their catches to support their extreme efforts on behalf of the whole party. They had agreed not to feed on any of the crew once on the walk, unless there was more trouble. The murmurs of dissent seemed to have died out along with Hickey, strangely enough. However, there were still some crew members who proved challenging to deal with.

“Can I have a word, Francis?” Blanky ducked into the Captain’s tent, drawing the flaps shut behind him as Crozier turned from his writing to face him.

“Of course, Tom. Everything all right?”

Blanky sat heavily on the cot, rubbing absently at the stump of his leg.

“Well that’s rather what I wanted to ask you, old friend. I have a feeling there’s some things you’re not telling me.”

Crozier shook his head ruefully.

“There are quite a few things I’m not telling you, and I hope you’ll understand my reasons in time.”

“Oh, cut the holier than thou nonsense, this is me you’re talking to. For starters, everyone in the camp knows you’re fucking Commander Fitzjames, so you can stop pretending that’s a secret. Canvas walls aren’t very thick, you know.”

“Ah.” Crozier dropped his head to his hand as he digested this information. “Have the men—have they said anything?”

“Don’t worry, Francis, they’d still follow you out of here, if you were riding Fitzjames the whole way.” Crozier rolled his eyes. “They know you’re their best chance of survival, but more than that—and this is getting to what I really wanted to talk about—they’ve noticed that anyone who speaks out against you tends to come down mysteriously sick not long after.”

Crozier suppressed a sigh. Apparently he had not been as subtle as he hoped on many fronts, but then Blanky had always been able to see through him. Maybe he didn’t speak for all the men.

“Then there’s the matter of the meat,” Blanky continued. “Of course we all appreciate yours and Lieutenant Jopson’s and the Commander’s hunting abilities, when you’ve been able to track down the food that’s keeping us alive. But the funny thing is, even though the meat is fresh, it always looks as though it’s had all the blood drained out of it.”

Blanky gave Crozier a hard stare, while the latter attempted to look perplexed. Blanky went on.

“Me nan used to tell me stories from her growing up in Russia, about creatures called vampires that would rise from their graves to drink the blood of maidens in the night. Now, I wouldn’t call Commander Fitzjames a maiden, but…”

“Dammit, Tom, that was one time!” Crozier snapped before he could think about it. Blanky gave him another long hard look. Crozier took a deep breath. “There have been many things that have strained credulity on this voyage, but this phenomena may be the most incredible. How did you know?”

“After I lost me leg, when you were locked away getting the whiskey out of your system for good. You came out of that cabin different. I’ve known you sober, Francis, and it wasn’t that. Was it Jopson did it?”

Crozier nodded slowly. 

“I asked him to. I was going to die and I thought it was the only chance I had of saving us all.”

“Seems to be doing the trick, I have to say.”

“You have every right to be horrified.”

“What? That my best mate is a bugger and an undead monstrosity?” Blanky laughed his braying laugh and clapped Francis on the shoulder. “There’s many a worse thing can be said of a man! Just wanted to hear it from your own mouth.”

“You’re a wonder among men, Thomas Blanky. It was foolish of me to think I could keep anything from you.”

“And, Francis? The teeth are a bit of a giveaway.”

Crozier ran the tip of his tongue across his now-sharp canines and gave a rueful laugh.

“I suppose they are, now you mention it.”

That night, in their shared tent, James let Francis drink from him his share of the blood from the caribou James and Jopson had brought back. He loved the feeling of their bodies tangled together, Francis’s mouth fastened on his throat, his hands burrowing under layers of clothing to settle against bare skin. James stroked Francis’s hair, feeling his hum of satisfaction. When Francis pulled away, James kissed the blood off his lips and chased the taste into his mouth. It wasn’t the same as human blood, more like tinned rations compared to a fresh cut of meat, but it was nourishment, and comfort, all the same.

“Have you had enough?” James asked softly.

Francis nodded, though James knew for a fact he hadn’t taken his full share. Trust him to be looking out for James’s sustenance more than his own. He didn’t press the matter, but settled back into Francis’s arms as they traded lazy kisses. James related his conversation with Jopson, and Francis smiled so broadly the corners of his eyes wrinkled. 

“That sounds perfect. As long as the men didn’t feel they were being coerced.”

He told James of his talk with Blanky, leaving out the more colourful turns of phrase, and James laughed ruefully. 

“I suppose there are very few secrets out here.”

“Mm. But I tell you, there is no group of men I’d rather be at the ends of the earth with. All of us left, now, I’m so proud of every one.”

James felt a great glow of affection for his captain. His strength and faith in them were pulling all of them through this ordeal, immortal powers be damned.

“I know,” James said, and then more quietly, to himself, “more than God loves them.”

They lay in silence for the space of several breaths before Francis spoke again.

“I hadn’t given much thought to what to do when we get out of here. But I know two things for certain.”

“Oh?”

Francis’s grip on James was suddenly implacable, and he met his eyes, their noses nearly touching.

“My future lies wherever you are, James. We’re both doomed to an eternity on this earth and I would spend it together, if you’ll put up with me.”

James kissed him hard, like sealing a vow.

“With all my heart.” They clasped hands and Francis kissed James’s knuckles reverently. “And the other?”

Francis’s face went from open and loving to set and resolute.

“I will personally track down and eat every pompous epauletted idiot at the Admiralty who thought it was a good idea to send us up here.”

Rescue, when it came in the form of Hudson’s Bay Company men trekking north, was most welcome. Once the survivors of the expedition were all were back in London and fully restored to health, they were fêted and feasted in honour of their miraculous escape from the grips of the Arctic. The Admiralty, of course, was foremost in the celebrations, and thus one evening the newly minted Sir Francis Crozier and promoted Captain James Fitzjames sat, decked in gold braid and facing one another across a long table, laden with a truly obscene amount of food that neither of them much cared to eat.

“Can I offer you a choice of wine, Sir Francis?” a voice called from the head of the table. “We have several fine vintages…”

Francis shook his head with a small smile.

“Thank you, no. I never drink… wine.”

“Ah, you’re a whiskey man, aren’t you? Well then…”

Only James had heard the slight pause, and as the conversation bubbled on around them, their eyes met in pleased acknowledgement of their many shared secrets. Francis tilted his head with a raised eyebrow toward a young lieutenant near the bottom of the table with an irritating laugh and decidedly wrong opinions about the Esquimaux. James nodded. Unlike the Franklin Expedition, that particular man was doomed to meet with misadventure on his way home, and disappeared without a trace.

**Author's Note:**

> Welp, this got a bit out of hand and somehow became the longest thing I've ever written. I realise it's utter crack, but I would still love to know if it held together tone-wise and in terms of pacing because I don't have much practice writing longer things and I feel there's definitely room for improvement.
> 
> Also I have no idea whether Thomas Blanky had a Russian grandmother but given his Jewish heritage, Eastern European ancestry didn't seem out of the question.
> 
> I'm @anadequatesir on tumblr, come say hi!


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